hillsong murder ballad

they don't teach you this at seminary, but neon's just another name for god. look, i know it sounds mad, but just trust me: light is light is light all the same, so why can't we bless the neon too? blessed be the purple, the yellow, the red. blessed be the smoke. blessed be the projectors. blessed be the refrain, the refrain & the refrain--

for another name for god, i'm told, is repetition: every week the same old story, the same old songs. like the house of your childhood. the place you grew up in, the place you'll never leave. blessed be the plastic chairs. blessed be the fold-out table. blessed be the colour-in jesus & his paper-white smile. blessed be the basement prayer rooms. blessed be that same still air. blessed be the slammed doors, the covered cameras, the knife rusted with something grape-juice dark-- blessed be its blade against your hummingbird-throat.


blessed be the lamb's last bleating. blessed be the walls leaning in to listen. (you're not the first to die here. you won't be the last.) blessed be, yes, the first glistening pearls of blood. blessed be the martyrs. blessed be isaac, son of abraham. blessed be his binding.


because the truth is that, despite everything, there's no other name for god but silence. at least, that’s what i think. it’s the only one he seems to hear, anyway. so– blessed be the quick sharp draw of the knife, a violin and a bow. blessed be your blown-dark eyes. blessed be the body heavy in my arms. blessed be mary, the cross & her son. blessed be the prodigals. blessed be the flock. blessed be death & all its sting. blessed be the ancient floorboards, torn up, replaced. blessed be the earth below them. blessed be the lilies, the roses, the rot.


blessed be the flowing water. blessed be the red-stained sink. blessed be the hymn, from somewhere far above: blessed be the children, practising late into the night. blessed be the missed note, the fumbled chord. blessed be the laughter. blessed be the 1! 2! 3! blessed be their voices, coming in one after another. blessed be the guitar, the keyboard, the bass. blessed be the kick-drum that thumps through the building, sounding so much like the beat of a heart: blessed be. blessed be. blessed be. 

YH Huang is a student who writes about guilt, ghosts, narratives, the Internet, and the often unexpected ways that history overlaps with and shapes the world we live in today. Thanks to her alma mater, she is also inexplicably enthusiastic about staircases. More of her work can be found at yunhsuanhuang.tumblr.com.